Cat Who Went Up the Creek

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Probably brushing for fingerprints. They’ll pick up some of Koko’s nose prints.”

  Nick asked, “How are the cats?”

  “Calmed down since yesterday—until Nicodemus paid a social call this morning.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll stay in our cottage until you move to the cabin.”

  Qwilleran had some time to kill before dining with Barb Ogilvie, and he walked aimlessly about the grounds.

  Once he stopped to watch a squirrel frantically digging a hole. It was so deep that his foreleg disappeared in the excavation as each teaspoonful of soil was brought to the surface. Then he buried some small treasure, scooping the earth back into the hole, tamping it with a paw, and camouflaging the site with fallen leaves.

  Qwilleran’s built-in “Qwill Pen” alarm system signaled a topic for Friday’s column: Squirrels! Everyone loves them or hates them!

  It would be possible to do man-on-the-street interviews without even leaving the inn! It was the kind of column that would virtually write itself! The reader response would pour into the newspaper office, making Arch Riker happy!

  Perfect!

  Meanwhile there was action in the lobby of the inn. The personable young MCCC student who was Lori’s part-time apprentice was arranging an exhibit in the glass display case that kept guests entertained while waiting for tables in the dining room.

  The previous exhibit had been a collection of photos showing the Limburger mansion, inside and out, before it was renovated by the Klingenschoen Fund. Outside, there were broken bricks, boarded up windows, overgrown weeds—and squirrels. Inside, there were dark walls, ponderous items of furniture shipped from Germany, a cuckoo clock, and cartons of rubbish. The photos were augmented by a few items of German porcelain and woodcarving, salvaged from the clutter when everything else was unloaded.

  Now the enthusiastic apprentice, whose name was Cathy, was arranging a collection of vintage nutcrackers. A computer-printed sign said BLACK WALNUTS ARE A HARD NUT TO CRACK.

  “Nice job, Cathy,” said Qwilleran. “If you don’t make it as president of an international hotel chain, you can always get a job as a window-trimmer.”

  “You say such nice things, Mr. Q!”

  “Where did you get the artifacts?”

  “Dr. Abernethy is lending them.”

  “Can the case be locked?” Qwilleran was thinking of the cuckoo clock that had been spirited out of the building before the renovation, although it had been promised to Aubrey Scotten. He was a young man who gave much and asked for little. He should have received the clock promised him.

  When the bundle of Monday papers arrived in the lobby, everyone grabbed. There on the front page was the black walnut staircase, with a squirrel peering in the window. She probably had a nest between the turret and the mansard roof. It was photographer’s luck that she happened to be there at the right moment.

  In the News Bite column, the unidentified body found in Black Creek was still unidentified, although the victim was not a local resident, it had been determined. In other words, he was an outsider, using an alias.

  Coverage of the third-grade portrait exhibit was extensive. As Qwilleran had predicted, the pale-tinted best of-show reproduced poorly, but the copy desk had handled it well. The cutline read: “Color my hair yellow. Color my eyes blue. Color my dress pink. Or visit the art center before June 30 and see for yourself why Lisa La-Porte’s pastel won best of show.”

  As for the popular vote, it went to a youngster named Robb Campbell. His self-portrait had scarecrow hair, jug ears, and a wide grin with one front tooth missing.

  Qwilleran waited until five o’clock, when legmen on the news beat would be reporting to their departments. Then he phoned the photo lab and congratulated Roger on the excellence of his staircase photo and the size of his byline.

  “Yeah . . . well . . . the squirrel deserves most of the credit.”

  “I hear there was some excitement on the police beat. Any further news?”

  “Uh . . . Can’t talk now, Qwill. Got prints coming through.”

  “See you later.” To Qwilleran, Roger’s “uh . . .” meant that he had the story-behind-the-story. He would call Roger at home, after dinner with Barb Ogilvie.

  At six o’clock he waited for his guest to drive into the parking lot and then went out to meet her.

  “You’re so gallant!” she said. “You’re a vanishing breed!”

  “I’d rather be an endangered species,” he said. “It doesn’t sound terminal. . . . You’re looking spiffy, Barb.” She was wearing bright red, and he wondered how it would look with the pale coral walls and tablecloths.

  Heads turned as they were ushered to a table. Some would be wondering, Where’s Polly?

  She said, “This is the first time I’ve seen the inn. Fran did a good job. I’d love to see the carved staircase that was in today’s paper.”

  “It’s in a private suite—and not on view. . . . What are you drinking tonight?”

  She asked for a margarita—not a popular cocktail in Moose County.

  He said, “It seems to me that you had a sizable rock on your ring finger, the last time I saw you.”

  “That’s ancient history!”

  “Too bad. Everyone thought you and Barry Morghan were a perfect couple.”

  “I was perfect for him, but he wasn’t perfect for me!”

  “Would any man be perfect for you?” Her attachments were known to be short-lived.

  “You would!” she replied flippantly, rolling her eyes.

  “Strike that last question,” he said. “Shall we consult the menu?”

  She ordered pork loin with quince and cinnamon glaze and then played it safe by talking business. “The coverage of our exhibit was great! And attendance was excellent. We thought friends and relatives would vote for their own third-grader, but they surprised us. They loved that caricature with a tooth missing. The artist was Robb Campbell, and when I met him, I was shocked! He was neatly combed and had flat ears and all his teeth!”

  “An opportunist,” Qwilleran said. “He’ll go far—but not necessarily in the right direction.”

  “I asked him why he played such a trick, and he said, ‘That’s how I feel inside.’ How do you like that, Qwill?”

  “I’m not sure I know. Kids have changed a lot since I was eight.”

  “Well, anyway, the good news is that people who have never been to the art center came to see this kid show. Maybe they’ll come again, attend a lecture, take a class.”

  Qwilleran recommended a glass of pink zinfandel with her entrée and then asked, “How’s everything in the world of wool? Are you still knitting? Is your mother still spinning? Is your father still shearing sheep? Is Duncan still herding the flock?”

  “Oh, let me tell you what my knitting club is doing! We’re knitting knee-high socks for the pirates in Pirates of Penzance to wear with black breeches—wide stripes of red, black and white! We think they’ll catch on with the tourists, too. They can be worn with shorts, you know. . . . Would you like a pair, Qwill?”

  “I think not. They’d scare the cats.” He could visualize the streets of Mooseville, swarming with tourists in moose head T-shirts, baggy shorts and pirate socks—and smelling of anti-skeeter spray.

  Dinner with Barb Ogilvie was always lively, but toward the end Qwilleran was eager to go upstairs and phone Roger at home.

  The photographer was quick to pick up the phone. “Hey, Qwill! Glad you called. Sorry I couldn’t talk downtown, but you know how it is.”

  “I understand perfectly. Let me tell you why I called. I have a vested interest in the case. The victim was in the process of vacating a cabin I’m supposed to rent, but now the police have it sealed. Do I move back to Pickax? Or what? Any crumb of information that will help me make a decision . . .”

  “I know what you mean. Wait’ll I close the door.” A door slammed. “First off, it’s definitely a homicide, but they’re calling it an accident so the suspect won’t go fugitive.�
��

  “Cause of death?”

  “Blow to the head.”

  “Well, thanks. It isn’t much, but it helps.”

  So, Qwilleran asked himself, had someone wanted Hackett’s forty-thousand-dollar car badly enough to kill for it? Or was there another motive? That being the case, where did the attack take place? And what was Hackett doing there early on a Sunday morning? And how did he end up in the creek, upstream from the Nutcracker?

  The creek came down through a dense forest owned by the Klingenschoen Foundation and known as the Black Forest Conservancy. Qwilleran stroked his moustache. He was getting a familiar sensation on his upper lip.

  chapter five

  On Tuesday morning, Qwilleran gave the Siamese a fine breakfast, some intelligent conversation and ten minutes of sport with the old necktie. Even so, they regarded him reproachfully, huddled in a compact bundle of fur, fluffed up to show disapproval.

  “I’m sorry, you guys,” he said. “I’m doing the best I can. As soon as the police release the cabin, we’ll move. Bear with me!” They merely sulked.

  At least they’re not raising the roof, he thought.

  He was taking the copy for Tuesday’s “Qwill Pen” to be faxed in the manager’s office. When he arrived, Lori was on the phone, however, and he waited in the hall. She was saying:

  “Yes, I know . . . I know, Mrs. Truffle, but . . . I agree, it was most unfortunate, but . . . Mrs. Truffle, will you let me explain that our insurance will cover repairs . . . On the contrary, they do expert repairs, but it will mean sending it to Chicago. When are you leaving for Milwaukee? . . . And when will you return? . . . Then we’ll wait till you get back, and you can supervise the shipping . . . No! No! You have nothing to worry about. The repairs will be undetectable . . . Hope you have a nice—” Lori was interrupted by a slammed receiver.

  “Excuse me,” Qwilleran said. “Are you having trouble?”

  “Sit down, Qwill. That was Mrs. Truffle, who is renting one of the cabins while a local contractor is building a vacation home for her. She’s going to Milwaukee on business for a couple of days. The last time she went, squirrels gnawed through the roof and chewed one of the Oriental rugs she’d brought up for the new house. They also dragged some of her underwear through the hole in the roof—good nesting material, I suppose.”

  Qwilleran chuckled. “She sounds like the kind of person who attracts glitches.”

  “They never told me that innkeeping would be like this . . . What can I do for you, Qwill? Is that your copy for today’s paper? I’ll fax it right away.”

  Going into the dining room for breakfast, he took a table near a couple who were mesmerized by the squirrel show outside the window.

  “They’re fantastic,” said the woman.

  “They’re rodents!” said the man.

  “Well, I think they’re adorable. Beautiful tails!”

  “They’re rodents!”

  Leaving the dining room without a second cup of coffee, he came upon Nick Bamba, going to the post office for mail. “Want to ride along, Qwill?”

  As they drove away from the inn, Qwilleran said, “I’m going to write my next column on squirrels.”

  “The price of peanuts will go up all over the county,” the innkeeper said cynically.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I poll your lodgers. Not everyone will be pro-squirrel.”

  “That’s all right. I’m not a hundred percent in favor of the hungry horde myself. I know they’re a big attraction but they multiply exponentially, and next year we’ll be wading shin-deep in fluffy tails.”

  Qwilleran chuckled. “When the Klingenschoen Foundation bought the mansion for an inn, they thought the squirrels were an asset.”

  “What do those guys in Chicago know?”

  He began his public opinion poll on the patio at the rear of the inn, where guests gathered to watch the performers’ acrobatics . . . and to simper over the friendliness of the hungry little animals. The tape recorder in his pocket captured it all:

  “Look! He’s not afraid of me! He comes right up to me for a peanut!”

  “Be careful, Stella. They have sharp teeth.”

  “It’s wonderful—don’t you think?—that a wild animal is so trusting of humans?”

  “Their tails are so graceful!”

  “They have such bright, intelligent eyes!”

  “And great ingenuity. Did you ever see one get at a squirrel-proof birdfeeder? He studies it for a while and then figures it out.”

  “I had to stop feeding birds. I was filling the feeder three times a day. We’d rather have the squirrels.”

  “We’d rather have the birds.”

  “Well, that’s what makes horse racing, isn’t it?”

  (Laughter.)

  “It’s not always funny. Our whole town was blacked out for thirty hours when a squirrel gnawed an overhead power line.”

  “What happened to the squirrel?”

  (Laughter.)

  “The window-washer told me there’s a nest on the roof, between the turret and the slate—just like the crook of a tree. That’s him running up and down the side of the building.”

  “It’s not a him; it’s a her. She goes up to feed her babies.”

  From the patio Qwilleran went into the conservatory, where some of the older guests were watching the squirrels through the glass.

  “My sister-in-law was in a deep depression, but the daily visits of a gray squirrel got her out of it.”

  “Squirrels are God’s gifts to humans. I never let anyone say anything against them.”

  “They have a lot of squirrels in Washington—”

  “You can say that again! Ha ha ha!”

  “One year they planted five thousand dollars’ worth of bulbs in the White House flower beds, and the squirrels dug them all up.”

  “I’ll bet somebody made political hay out of that little mistake!”

  “I’ll bet they had a Squirrelgate Investigation! Ha ha ha!”

  “Our dog chases them up a tree, and they turn around and laugh at him. Drives him berserk!”

  “They’re born comedians!”

  “They’re rodents! If they didn’t have those bushy tails, there’d be a law against them.”

  “One winter we went to Florida and squirrels got into our attic and had a ball! They like attics.”

  Qwilleran decided this would be the easiest column he had ever written. He turned off the tape recorder and strolled down to the creek.

  As he approached it, there were sounds of jubilation. Three persons in front of Cabin Three were laughing and crowing and flinging their arms wide: Hannah and a young couple in jeans. The boy from Cabin Two looked on wistfully until his mother called him away.

  “What goes on here?” Qwilleran called out.

  All three talked at once. “Good news! She’s gone! . . . The airport limo picked her up! . . . Free at last! We’re gonna celebrate!”

  Hannah made the introductions. They were Wendy and Doyle Underhill from Cabin Three. They recognized the author of the “Qwill Pen.” They had enjoyed the column on skeeters. Was it true that only female mosquitoes bite?

  Wendy said, “That’s why Doyle gets bitten so much. It’s his sex appeal!”

  Both young people were vibrantly attractive. She had a tumble of dark hair and merry eyes; he looked wholesomely healthy like a camp counselor.

  Doyle said, “I like the name of your newspaper.”

  Wendy said, “I love your slogan!”

  Boxed in a corner of the masthead were three words: “There’s Always Something!”

  Qwilleran explained his mission:

  “Today I’m taking the public pulse on the squirrel situation.”

  “Ask him anything,” said Wendy, giving her husband a playful shove. “He’s an expert on wildlife.”

  “Not an expert, but I read a lot.”

  “Then how do you explain the squirrel’s penchant for gnawing power lines and roof shingles?”

  “
They have to gnaw—or die. Their front teeth, the incisors, actually grow as much as six inches in a year if they don’t grind them down. They have an instinct for substances that make efficient grindstones.”

  Wendy said, “I like having them around, but I don’t encourage them with peanuts, or anything like that.”

  Hannah said, “They don’t bother me. I think they don’t like Gilbert and Sullivan. But I saw something amazing one day. A squirrel was floating across the creek on a piece of tree bark or something. I couldn’t believe it! I think he was using his tail for a sail. I wish I’d had a camera.”

  “May I quote this?” Qwilleran asked.

  “But don’t use my name. Some people think I have a crackpot hobby; they’ll think I’m over the edge. . . . Why don’t we sit on my porch and have some lemonade?”

  They moved to Cabin One.

  Wendy said, “I’d love to photograph squirrels racing and chasing each other and running up trees and flying through the branches. Then I’d edit the film to synchronize with Schubert’s Impromptu in F Minor—perfect squirrel music! Then I’d do a rabbit film to his Klavierstücke in C—perfect hippity-hop music.”

  “One question,” Qwilleran asked. “If squirrels are so agile, why are there so many dead ones on the highway?”

  “I just happen to know the answer,” said Doyle. “They’re quite comfortable with parked cars, but they panic when they meet a moving car, and they try to get up a tree. But it has to be a familiar tree! They’re territorial creatures. They’ll fight with another squirrel to protect their own territory. . . . so we have this squirrel running to avoid an approaching vehicle, but there’s a Murphy’s Law for Squirrels: One’s personal tree is always on the other side of the road! He dashes in front of the car and—another dead squirrel on the highway . . . My next lecture will be at . . .”

  Qwilleran asked the Underhills how they planned to celebrate their neighbor’s absence. They said:

  “We’ll whoop and holler and play loud music.”